


Murder on Guiltless Hands

by morrezela



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: Reaper was plagued by his thoughts. Thoughts of murder and thoughts that didn't fit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the 2016 Reaper 76 week. The theme was “How We Were” - History/Decay.

Reaper hated a lot of things in life. For starters, he hated every member of Overwatch. He meant to kill them, destroy their lives. If they weren’t for him, they sure as fuck were against him. It didn’t matter if they were the lowest file clerk or the highest ranking kiss ass trying to get into Morrison’s pants and good graces. They were all going to die some day.

They’d be lucky if they met their ends before Reaper caught up to them. Of course, sometimes Reaper thought he’d be lucky if he managed to track them all down. Overwatch had a wide range of people working for it in its heyday. Many of them knew how to drop out of sight entirely. Others knew how to be prominent enough in the news that reaching them was difficult. 

After years of being in the second camp, Jack Morrison was now firmly in the first. Reaper could admit that it was annoying. Jack was supposed to follow a specific pattern of behavior. He was supposed to always keep coming for Gabriel… always.

The thought made Reaper’s head throb, so he shook it away. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen. Sometimes he’d have his hands around somebody’s neck, squeezing the life out of some stupid doctor out to solve some disease and have the slightest moment of horror about his actions. It was inconvenient to say the least. 

If there was anybody in the world who didn’t deserve to die, Reaper hadn’t met them yet. Someday, when he no longer needed her, Sombra would be dead before she could even hope to get her ridiculous cloaking shields off. But he’d need to kill Jack first, because he was proving to be harder to kill than expected.

It just fucking figured that Ana came out of nowhere to save Jack’s ass. Goddamn Morrison always was good at getting others to help him out. There was a time when Reaper had admired that about him. Had marveled at how Jack could get people so very different to all work together. How Jack was a boundless well of determination and hope. 

Then Jack got promoted for those skills, promoted because he’d kept Overwatch together and… Well, Reaper’s appreciation for those talents went down the drain. Still, he had depended on Jack’s unwavering sense of justice. His desire to do the ‘right thing’ should’ve landed Morrison in one of Reaper’s snares a long time ago.

Trust Morrison to change the song once Reaper finally learned the dance. The thought made a memory stir. Jack was a terrible dancer. Even though his sense of rhythm was scarily accurate, his movements never managed to close to smooth let alone sensual. Their first kiss had happened because Gabriel had thought it was a good idea to get Jack drunk enough to dance.

It had been a good idea…

Reaper shook his head. It had been a terrible idea. Morrison couldn’t kiss worth spit. He was bad in bed. Bad at commanding. Bad at everything. He needed to die. 

Comforting anger blanketed Reaper’s shoulders as golden hued memories were replaced with ashen ones. It was probably time for him to take his medication. The pills made him feel ill, but what else was new? Ever since he’d been changed from Gabriel to Reaper, he’d had some sort of bodily malady.

The medication helped his body stay together. The clarity it brought his thoughts was just a pleasant side effect. He didn’t need to think about soft kisses or gentle words. He needed to think about what this new Morrison would do, not the old one.

Getting inside of Jack’s head was something he would’ve once excelled at. The man used to be an open book. Now he was an enigma that Reaper needed to figure out. One he did, he’d be able to track him down and give him the ending he deserved.

His head throbbed as he tugged his gloves off, claws tinkling together like the windchimes Jack had been so fond of. Reaper ground his teeth together, willing thoughts of another time away, but they would not go. Guilt crept around the edges of his vision as his headache grew worse.

The compartment that housed his medication was stubborn, refusing to give up its seal. Reaper took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Panic wouldn’t do him any good. But the brief calm that overtook him was almost worse. Memories of Jack gave way to battlefields he’d strode over devouring every corpse in sight, making more when his hunger was not sated.

Killing and killing and killing. It didn’t matter who. It didn’t matter why. Only his paycheck at the end mattered. 

The pills rattled in his hand when he finally got the precious bottle free from its compartment. Before he could get the lid off, his hand dispersed into mist. The bottle rolled away, but he didn’t have the form to chase after it.

Even as his body dissolved into a fog, he tried to hold on to his anger, use it to reform his unwilling body. But he couldn’t focus. Guilt. Self-loathing. Turmoil ate at him. Victims who had been faceless were now screaming for their lives. Righteous anger turned to sickening horror as he thought of how he’d taken money to murder people he didn’t even know, supporting a cause he didn’t believe in.

Worst of all, he could see Jack’s surprised face as he raked his newly taloned hand over it. The shock. The anger that followed as Reaper’s victim dared to fight back. Why did they always have to fight back instead of letting Reaper murder them?

But confusion only lead back into loathing then anger then disgust then confusion again. Reaper knew not how long he lay there before a sound reached him. The click of boots preceded the sight of a face that was foreign yet familiar. He felt like he should be able to place it, yet felt like he’d never seen this person ever before.

The person sighed, as if they were very put out by Reaper’s state. “This is my fault. I assumed that a military man with your reputation would be better at remembering to take your medication on time. I should’ve programmed that into you when I had the chance.”

A gloved hand pushed down into Reaper’s mist, rooting around in it like he was nothing but an inconvenient bit of weather. It came out holding a tiny, silver object no bigger than a breath mint. 

“If I thought I could, I’d just reprogram this right now. But humans are so difficult to write compatible programs for. I’m not sure if I could keep you from reverting back to a previous state if I did,” the person mused as they seemed to scan the object. The scanning device made a pleasant beep and briefly flashed green.

“Well, looks like you’re not getting decommissioned yet. Good thing too. I’d hate to start over. They just don’t make super soldiers like they used to,” the person said as they dropped the object back down into Reaper’s mist. They proceeded to pull out what looked like an aerosol can, spraying its contents over Reaper’s could of particles.

Questions and suspicions tried to rear up as the substance seeped into him, but they started to fade away almost as they came into being. They decayed into nothing.

“Now, be a good soldier, and kill Morrison the next time you see him, okay?” the person said as they put their fancy tools away. 

By the time their footsteps echoed out of existence, Reaper had forgotten their existence as surely as he had forgotten the steps of the dance he once shared with his love.


End file.
